by Jackie Ivie
“You haven’t the size to keep me out, young man. And if you don’t move out of the blasted doorway, I’ll prove it!”
“Let her in, Reg.”
Gil walked through the foyer, ignoring the fight Perkins had apprised him of as he continued into the morning room. He’d been expecting Bridget’s arrival. She’d probably been sent post-haste by his mother.
“You look a fright, Gillian.”
“Compliment taken.”
He poured coffee, not surprised when she frowned at his offer of a cup. She was welcome to as much of his spirits as she cared to drink. He tried to find something of interest in the newspaper while she settled into a chair opposite him.
“I believe I’ll have a Scotch. Yes. A large one. My thanks.”
He heard her order a drink with half his attention. The other scanned the articles before him. Ah. There it was — Montriart Heir Found, Wed to Gillian Tremayne. No wonder he’d been besieged with callers. The article went on to mention the one million pounds and the diamond mine, too.
Someday, he should do something about Reg’s loose tongue.
“You realize last week’s edition is rather stale, don’t you?”
He lowered the paper and met her smile with the same dull frown he used on everyone.
“State your business and go, Bridget. I don’t receive callers anymore.”
“Don’t you, now? That’s a pure shame, since you’ve gone and delivered the greatest coup the Tremayne family has ever accomplished. I just wanted to be one of the first to congratulate you on your great good fortune, love.”
“I have a headache, Bridget.”
“Probably the company you keep.”
She looked at the marquis in the doorway. Reginald looked from Gil to Bridget and back, then lifted his hands in surrender and left.
“What do you want, Bridget?” Gil asked.
“Breakfast.”
“Very well,” Gil said. “Have a go at the breakfast. When you’ve filled your gullet, perhaps you’ll leave.”
She looked at him for long moments, while a clock ticked somewhere behind his head. And then she laughed heartily.
“I forgot. I’ve already breakfasted. However, I am partial to pork chops, so I’ll have a taste or two, while visiting with my most beloved nephew…the millionaire one.”
“I’m surprised at you, Bridget, for getting the story wrong. I haven’t increased my coffers, nor am I going to.”
She ignored him and heaped a plate. There was plenty to choose from. His cook was tired of trying to tempt him, anyway. Hell, the man would probably find Bridget’s healthy appetite the greatest compliment after the way Gil was returning his best work untouched.
“I heard a bit about that, Gil, and I didn’t let it bosh me at all. I’ve the highest regard for your personal intelligence, and I know how much the girl loves you.”
His frown deepened, and he had to control himself before he stalked from the room. He couldn’t do a thing about the way his fingers clenched the paper.
“Excellent chops, lad, absolutely excellent. I don’t suppose your cook’s up to an offer of employment elsewhere?”
“Why? Did Mrs. Hotchkins tire of tripling her recipes with feeding you and quit her post? The woman shows a degree of sense after all.”
“My, aren’t we prickly? I only come on an errand of mercy, and I get insults.”
“You’ll take your mercies elsewhere, then?”
“When dogs take to the sea, my boy, pigs fly, and the proverbial cow jumps over the moon.”
“That soon? I’ll find you a spot in the corner to sleep.”
He snapped the newspaper open again, trying to study week-old news articles.
“You can’t go through with it, you know.”
Gil gave up on the society page and lowered it, waiting until she looked up from her plate.
“What can’t I go through with?” he asked.
“I know all about your letter, Gillian, my boy. Why do you think I’m here, anyway?”
“It’s rather obvious. You’re eating. Keeping your svelte figure, no doubt.”
She chuckled and drank a bit of Scotch with her eggs. Gil raised an eyebrow. Even at the height of his wild-oat-sowing days, he’d never considered breakfast with whiskey. He almost shuddered at the thought.
“I’ve been sent to talk sense into you. Isn’t that wonderful? I get roused from a warm bed, told the most amazing story, and sent post-haste to my welcoming nephew. And really, lad, if you intend to keep callers out, you’d better hire a more efficient doorman than the marquis.”
“I take it you’ll not welcome the boy’s suit should Dexter leave you a rich widow? The poor man might expire from disappointment.”
“He’ll get over it…but I don’t believe your wife will.”
“Now you’re getting personal, Bridget, love. Here is where I inform you that it’s none of your concern.”
“None of my concern? I’ve been patting myself on the back and taking accolades for getting you two together. Honestly! You put a crimp in my matchmaking talents.”
“You? Matchmake? The horror!”
“I’ve been known to dispense advice, too, but I’ll rarely admit that.”
He couldn’t help smiling. It didn’t reach his eyes. That’s when he noted a look bordering on concern. His smile dropped. She could save her compassion. He didn’t need it.
“You can’t do this to her, Gil. She’s cried buckets, and your mother’s tearing out her hair.”
“My mother tore out her hair years ago, Bridget. Have you forgotten that torrid little affair Anne had with that half-pay sergeant before she was safely wed to the earl? According to Mother, she snatched herself near-bald that time.”
“This is different, Gil, and you know it.”
“Are you finished? I have plans.”
“You can’t just dissolve your marriage this way, Gillian! I won’t see it done! You can’t just send an official letter asking for your freedom, damn it! It’s not done.”
“Is that a no?”
“I haven’t had a scone, and you know how my stomach will trouble me if I leave it empty.” She glared at him.
“Heaven forbid that happens,” he replied.
She huffed to the sideboard. Bridget could glare at him all day if she liked, but he was immune. She might as well meet the new Gillian. He was a thoughtless, heartless cad. She could learn firsthand. It made no difference to him.
"I understand the Binghams have gone for an extended stay on the continent. Terrible timing, with the state of things in France."
"Do you have a point to make?" Gil asked.
"There was some hushed news about a duel, as well. A fellow named Gaston seems to have challenged the wrong party. Or he's a terrible swordsman."
"Really?"
"I don't know why you don't look more satisfied, Gillian. You obviously won."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he answered.
“I don’t suppose you’ve given any thought to what your little request did to her, did you?”
“Can’t you keep enough food in your mouth to quiet it, Bridget?” he asked tightly, pouring a bit more coffee into his full cup.
“You can’t do it, and you know it. I’ve known you since you wore dresses, damn it, and I won’t have you go through with this!”
“You’ll excuse me if I find your company a bit too stimulating, won’t you, Bridget? I mentioned a headache, after all.”
“Gillian!”
He folded the paper very carefully and placed it beside his plate, did the same to his napkin, and prayed his hands wouldn’t give him away. Not even the smallest tremor was allowed to show his distress, if that was what this emotion was called. He should’ve let Reg handle her. Gil should’ve stayed in his rooms looking at the gray walls, while the gray toned hours passed, so he could get through another day in a gray tinted life.
“Good day, Bridget.”
He slid his chair back carefull
y, mentally storing how easy it was becoming to block unpleasant experiences. If he kept at it, he might equal Brandy someday. He turned around. There were twelve checkered tiles to cross before he reached the door. He slid his eyes across them, calculating how long it would take.
“She’s increasing, dear.”
Bridget’s comment froze him in place. But his heart still beat. Damn thing. Gil swiveled. Stared.
“What…did you just say?”
Something was wrong with his head. It felt fuzzy. And his knees were shaking. Then his legs joined the fray. He barely got the chair pulled back out before he fell into the seat.
“A baby, Gillian. That’s what I said. Your child, I might add. You really should try a bit of these kippers. They’re ever so delicious.”
Bubbles seemed to be filling him, akin to champagne. It was horror. And shock. It couldn’t be such joy, he felt bursting with it.
“A…?” His voice was an octave higher than normal and choked.
“Baby. It happens, I’m told, despite the best efforts and most solid intentions. But it does complicate this annulment request of yours, now doesn’t it?”
“Oh, Lord.”
He tossed back his coffee and stared at Bridget. She smiled.
“Oh, Lord.”
“It’s really rather entertaining watching your reaction, love. I’m certain that’s why mothers-to-be tell the father themselves, but…there you go. I got the assignment because you’ve been damned difficult to get hold of.”
It wasn’t shock, and it wasn’t anything like horror. And he really needed to get to his piano. He really was bursting. His cheeks hurt with the grin.
“Oh, Lord!”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you this...brisk, Gillian, darling. And you’ll have to forgive your auntie, but I believe I’ll just sit a bit and store how refreshing it is in my memory. I also have to deal with the distressing amount of food I’ve just swallowed, thanks to you.”
Gil shoved his chair out with his leap.
“What? I’m sorry, Bridget. I wasn’t listening. And…you must excuse me, but I’ll be...oh, Lord!”
He was at a full run and drumming his fingers on his thighs before he reached the piano.
CHAPTER THREE
“You didn’t have to come with me, Bridget.”
“You say that after dragging me three hours from town? Honestly boy, you could’ve said something sooner.”
“I did, but I’m beginning to think you’re deaf.”
“It must have been your concert, love. I believe we could’ve sold tickets outdoors. It was that moving.”
He flushed and flipped the reins for something to do.
“Of course, if you’d spent the time employed in your toilet instead of plying the ivories,” Bridget continued, “we’d have been there before nightfall, but no. You’re a tormentor, Gil. Your wife tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen.”
“You’re showing the wrong trumps, Bridget. It was your idea that I change my attire, remember?”
“You want to rush willy-nilly about the countryside clad in breeches and shirt? I wouldn’t have been responsible if you were ravished by the milkmaids, Gillian.”
He swallowed and shook his head.
“The least you could’ve done was seen that your dear auntie had a hamper of foodstuffs before we left. Would that have been too much to ask?”
“Your gullet rules your life, Bridget.” He softened it by smiling.
“Something has to, boy. I haven’t been as lucky as you are in the love-struck department.”
“Lucky? She probably won’t even see me.”
He couldn’t stop the note of desperation in his voice and hoped she wouldn’t mention it.
“Oh. She’ll see you, darling. She just won’t want to.”
“My male pride thanks you, Bridget, really, it does. Could you lean a bit more toward center? I believe you’re making my carriage tilt.”
“Stuff and fustian, boy, and you know it. But you’ll say almost anything to keep your mind off the upcoming reunion, won’t you?”
His hands tightened on the reins, but that was the only sign she’d been right. “Christ, it’s never taken so long before.”
She hooted with laughter at his discomfiture. “What hasn’t? The ride…or my little remarks? I can’t give you sympathy if you’re not specific, remember?”
“Why the hell didn’t you just stay in town? I daresay there’s still something to do, even in the off season. There’s bound to be food.”
“And miss this? I’d have been tied in knots and unable to eat a bite if I had to keep that little marquis company and await word of my matchmaking efforts. I don’t have the patience. Oh, look! We’ve arrived, and they’ve got the red carpet out. I wonder how they knew you’d be visiting?”
“Because you have a big mouth, Bridget. And you’re a lousy liar. You were sent to fetch me. And you don’t take no for an answer.”
He grinned, but it was probably sickly and did nothing to disguise his nervousness.
“Oh, pooh. There you go, hurting me with your wicked tongue.”
“Mine? I do believe if you’d visit that husband of yours more often, he might expire from yours.”
She laughed so hard he thought she might fall off. The major domo must’ve had the same thought, because he looked pale as he approached, worried he might become Bridget’s landing net.
“Before we’re separated, and you search out your true love, Gil, there’s something I need to say.”
“Couldn’t it have been said in the last three hours? Christ, Bridget, you’re worse than my mother.”
“Oh! You wound me to the bone, Sir!” She pantomimed pulling a blade from her breast while the servant waited to help her down. “There’s no reason for it, either. I’m just giving a tiny bit of advice.”
“I thought you didn’t give it.” He handed the reins to the ostler.
“Rarely love, but I must make an exception in your case.”
“Must you?”
“Remember. The Hun, darling. Trust me. Your auntie knows these things, and she really does like it.”
He lifted his eyes heavenward, took a deep breath, and walked up the steps.
***
Thank God for the Dowager Lady Tremayne.
Helene didn’t pay attention to everything the woman said, but the constant chatter helped dim the loneliness. Strange…but here she was, surrounded by humanity on all sides, yet still she felt alone. So many people. Gillian’s mother. The servants. The constant stream of visitors. And yet nothing dented the lonely feeling.
Bridget allayed some of it when she stopped by the previous day. It was enjoyable to trade quips, although Gillian’s mother looked like she’d need smelling salts. But then Bridget up and departed, leaving Helene at the mercy of the callers who wouldn’t stop coming.
She knew why. Her fortune. Ever since Liam Linden brought her the news, she’d been beset on all sides. It seemed everyone wanted her to sponsor a cause or assist a case. They wouldn’t leave her alone.
Thank goodness for the baby! Gillian’s desertion didn’t hurt quite as badly now. Helene let the contentment fill her. Not only was the comte’s last wish granted, but she’d never be alone anymore. Once the baby was born, she’d have someone to love her unconditionally. A baby wouldn’t turn away the instant the agreed-upon time expired, ignoring her pleas. Nor would a baby leave her alone in a masculine quest for entertainment.
At least…not until he grew up.
Helene knew it was a boy. Gillian Tremayne was certainly obstinate enough to curse her life with another tawny-haired giant who’d send her into the same swoons the dowager alluded to.
It was odd, but the woman seemed quite healthy to suffer fainting spells as often as she alluded. She also seemed to have a healthy head of hair despite her claims of pulling them out with worry over her only remaining son.
Gillian.
“Damn him, anyway.”
She was
thinking about him? That was stupid. And wasteful. And stopping. Right now.
“Helene? May I come in?”
Her jaw dropped as the object of her thoughts opened the connecting door from his chambers and walked in. Without a hint of notice. As if he belonged there.
Helene pulled the cover to her chin. “As you’re already in, My Lord…I’ll just assume you’re not awaiting my wishes one way or the other.”
He’s only here because of the baby! Oh no!
Helene knew exactly where to lay the blame, too. The Dowager Lady Tremayne. Drat her loose tongue! The last thing Helene wanted was to know she’d trapped him again!
“Can I get you to call me Gil?”
“No. You can’t. You can’t get me to call you anything except blackguard.”
He stuck his lower lip out and blew hair off his forehead and looked at the floor. And then he shoved his hands into his greatcoat pockets. He wore a coat? In his wife’s bedchamber?
“May I be honest with you, Helene?”
He finally asked it, lifting his head and looking at her from beneath his eyebrows. She swallowed past the dryness of her mouth. This was ridiculous. And she shouldn’t listen. Despite how he affected her. But that was one of his weapons. He affected women. He always had. That was no reason to listen to anything he said.
Yet the dark circles under his eyes and general air of defeat about him tugged strangely at her heart no matter how she staunched it. He was supposed to be enjoying his status as an almost-free gentleman, not looking like he’d spent time in one of Bonaparte’s prisons.
“Do you know how?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“I suppose I deserve that. And more. I haven’t come to discuss my character, Helene.”
“You have one?”
He paled suddenly. For some reason, she wondered if he’d collapse like that first time. But that was a stupid idea.
“You aren’t going to make this any easier, are you?”
“Fine. You want it said easily? You’re here about the baby, Gillian Tremayne. Nothing more. I’m sorry for trapping you and making your annulment request impossible, but I didn’t get into this situation myself, you know.”
